By Chris Heide
For as long as I can remember, something felt different deep inside of me. Like a puzzle to which I was missing a crucial piece. As I grew up, and I began to come to terms with my sexuality, I thought that self-acceptance of being a gay man would fill that void. No such luck. When I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder in my late teens, I thought that would provide the clarity for my thoughts, feelings, and behaviors that I had been searching for. However, that void was still there. As a descended into a brutal drug addiction, I knew I was trying to fill that void with substances in a desperate attempt to fill whole. Even after I got clean and sober, that dark void was still there, and I did not know what to do. I could never understand why people did not feel as deeply, frequently, or intensely as I did. I felt alone.
After nearly eight years of sobriety, I have tried every imaginable intervention to figure out that missing puzzle piece. The piece that would explain why I had such extreme emotions, a consuming fear of abandonment, a feeling of safety in manipulative behaviors, and unstable relationships. I tried therapy, medication, sober support groups, EMDR, venting to friends and family, but I never quite found my answer. As least, not until this month.
Earlier this year, my mental health began to deteriorate, despite my consistent involvement in 12 step programs. I was experiencing suicidal thoughts, depression, boredom, anxiety, irritability, and negative self-talk. I knew something was wrong and that I needed to try and get more help. Through the recommendation of a friend, I found a psych ANRP who I was told could find me the right medication to manage my symptoms. What I did not know at the time is that she would be able to provide me with the diagnosis that would finally answer that illusive question.
Over the course of the first few sessions, we mainly discussed medication and previous diagnoses- standard appointments for a medication provider. However, as we developed a therapeutic relationship, and my mental health continued to deteriorate, we began to talk more deeply about what might be terribly wrong with me.
As I was descending towards a mental health breaking point, she began to ask me questions about my feelings and behaviors. With each symptom she listed, the gears in my head began to click. Clarity came into view.
“Do you have a fear of abandonment?” she asked sympathetically.
In my head that question registered with me. In every meaningful relationship in my life, I have been paralyzed by a terrifying notion that I would be abandoned by the people I love. It felt inevitable to me, and I would do everything I could to not lose those relationships. My attempts to keep the relationships intact, such as through frequent communication, jealousy, or clingy behaviors only served to validate my greatest fears. My behaviors would push people away, leaving me abandoned. I was my own self-fulfilling prophecy. My very own Cacth-22.
Yes, I do.
“What about extreme emotions that fluctuate multiple times in a day?”
Oh god yes. My emotions feel intense and extreme all day, every day. Like every nerve in me is exposed.
“Unstable interpersonal relationships?”
Fuck, this describes me perfectly.
“An unstable sense of self or identity?
Yes. I have always felt like I do not know who I am. I hate that question. Who really knows who they are?
“Recurring suicidal thoughts?”
Ugh, yes.
“Impulsive behavior?”
I mean, I think my former drug addiction certainly qualifies. Or sex. Or just all my risky, emotion driven behavior…
As she continued to rattle off symptoms, a strange feeling of terror and relief filled my stomach and chest. I felt like my heart was in my throat, but also inexplicably excited. She was describing exactly how I felt: out of control, overly emotional, impulsive, and self-destructive.
“It sounds like Borderline Personality Disorder to me.”
Oh shit. Holy shit.
That was the moment she diagnosed me; I felt a rush of emotion. Relief. Fear. Clarity. Anxiety. Happiness. Finally, I had my answer. I knew the missing piece. I knew what was wrong with me and I now had a framework to understand myself. Ten years ago, I remember standing in a bookstore skimming a book about BPD. In that moment, I thought that diagnosis might be a possibility for me. I tucked away that experience deep into the recesses of my memory, but it is like part of me always knew.
Now that I have a diagnosis, then I can do something about it. I can work to improve myself, my mental health, and the quality of my life. I can improve my relationships and escape the self-sabotaging and self-destructive cycles that I have been stuck in for most of my life.
Despite this diagnosis, I was not just instantly better. I knew I had a lot of work to do on myself and I resented that fact. I have spent eight years working on myself. When can I be done with all this work?
Due to a rough six months, including burnout from my job as a clinician, unresolved trauma, the relapses of multiple people I cared about, my mental health began to deteriorate. I was consumed with depression, anxiety and feelings of inadequacy and failure. My codependency re-emerged and my emotional sobriety was at risk. I knew I was at a breaking point. I had been there before. I knew the consequences. I knew I had to do something about it.
After months of hiding my feelings, taking care of others, and pretending like I was fine, I finally asked for help. I decided to check myself into the hospital to get the help I needed for my mental health. I knew it was needed so that I would not do something impulsive and permanent. I did not want to die, I did not want to relapse, but I needed to do something to change the way I felt. Because the way I was feeling was unbearable. As uncomfortable as I was, I checked myself in and I have never felt prouder of myself.
I spent three days in the inpatient portion of the hospital, receiving the help I needed for my mental health. I spent my time journaling, eating, sleeping, and attending groups. It was the perfect escape for me to rest, process, and to start to figure myself out. I filled an entire journal with writing and tried my hardest to focus on myself. To grasp and understand my new diagnosis. Focusing on myself is an unusual feeling. I have absolutely been selfish, especially in my active addiction, but to focus on my vulnerabilities and my negative thoughts is something that I am not an expert at. For three days, I had to sit with my feelings, confront my fears, come to terms with my diagnosis, and evaluate my relationships. I did more work on myself in those three days than I had in the last six months. And when I got out, I was overwhelmed with love and support from the plethora of positive people who know me best.
While those three days did not fix me, nor would they have fixed me, I emerged from my inpatient stay with renewed motivation and a decrease in my symptoms. I felt prepared to tackle my diagnosis of BPD and to set necessary boundaries in my life, so that I could prioritize my own well being for the first time in an exceedingly long time. The feeling of relief, courage, clarity, and gratitude that I experienced walking out of the hospital was the greatest gift I could have asked for. I had no shame, nor fears of stigma or judgement. I only had a burning desire to finally do the painful work that would allow me to live free of the perilous void. To share these experiences means that I can live free of self-judgment and the fear of not being my authentic self. I am not broken and I do not need to be fixed. I choose to speak up. My diagnosis does not define me, but it is a part of me. A part that I will chose to embrace, master, and turn into a beautiful asset.
